


Falcon Cry

by everlarklane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bard - Freeform, Bard Bode, Barding, Bullying, Department of Mysteries, Experimentation, Frankenstein - Freeform, Gen, Harry Potter Next Generation, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kiara Potter - Freeform, Leo Dursley - Freeform, Music, Next-Gen, Past Character Death, Pre-Hogwarts, Sari Potter - Freeform, Unspeakables, next-next gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-12-10 10:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everlarklane/pseuds/everlarklane
Summary: A collection of prompt fills for the Quidditch League Competition."I AM NOT AS FINE AS I SEEM!"-Migraine, |-/





	1. Chapter 1

_ BEATER 2: Poppy (as inspired by Madam Pomfrey): Write about a character being treated, or treating someone, as a consolation prize. _

_ Prompts: overgrown gravestones, "Never use my name and his name in the same sentence. Ever.", ruby red, "I wish you had told me before I… " // "What? Before you what?", serene _

* * *

Zacharias never said it aloud, but he knew he was nothing more than a consolation prize.

His legs were numb with cold as he sat crossed-legged in front of the overgrown tombstone. With no Mother and Father to clear away the weeds, his brother’s gravehad grown wild. After all, Zacharias never bothered to return unless his parents forced him too. 

He’d never have to worry about that again. 

“Why am I here?” he whispered to the gravestone, his words frosting in the air to match his tone. “What will staring at an old stone do?” 

The gravestone did not respond. 

Zacharias dropped his head into his hands, fingers pressing against the roots of his blonde hair. 

“I’m a coward, brother” he said. “An arrogant, cowardly fool. I don’t know why I thought—” 

The words chopped off like a crack in thick ice. One freckled hand drifted down from his forehead to cradle his elbow. 

His thumb rubbed the goosebumps there— from cold or from the strange emotion welling and roiling within him. 

“Our sisters…” Zacharias started again. “Katherine, Katja— they are so much more like you. No wonder Mother and Father always preferred them.” 

Self loathing dripped like blood from his lips as the words spilt forth like overturned firewhiskey— burning and unforgiving, unstoppable in its path. 

“Oh, of course it was never obvious then— before you died, even, I never saw it for what it was. Little Zach, so confident, so relaxed, so _ like his big brother _ . Oh Zachie, I hope you grow up to be just like your brother! Oh  _ Zach _ , I wish you were more like dear Theo, you know...” 

Zacharias’s left hand searched the frosted ground blindly for the bottle of firewhiskey he’d dragged along. “And then you died, you bastard. Perfect, beautiful, loyal Theodore died in the most heroic way possible. What were we left with but me!”

He yanked the cork from the lip of the bottle, letting the whiskey burn against his tongue, let phantom flames lick his gums until the words fell again, sloppy and unbearably honest. “Well, Mother and Father had to turn their hopes on someone. But I was never quite as good as you, huh, brother…”

The flames of a past battle roared in his ears in time to the heat drumming in his center. The alcohol almost painted the fires for him. “I ran away, you know. With Father. I pushed little eleven and twelve year olds into spellfire to escape because...because…”

He threw the bottle at the gravestone, watching the glass shimmer into shards with a sound like Apparition. 

“I wish you’d told me, before I…” he slurred, fingers and toes and hands and legs so numb, his mind so numb, his heart so numb except for the burning of an entire bottle of firewhiskey roiling in his heart. A hiccup bubbled out of his lips. 

“What? Before you what?” a faint voice seemed to respond. 

Zacharias spun, uncoordinated limbs tangling together as his fell back against the mossy earth of his brother’s grave. 

“You!” 

“Me,” said a figure emerging from the frost-lit sunset, a taller figure, still shrouded, at his side. “Zacharias, your brother Theodore has come to speak with you.”

"Never use my name and his name in the same sentence. Ever,” Zacharias spat, struggling to drag himself up from the frozen earth. 

“If you insist,” said his Father, before dissipating into the slowly gathering fog. 

“Brother,” Zacharias said, turning slowly to the apparition waiting silently for him. “You are dead.”

“Indeed.”

“You are not a ghost.”

“No.”

“...what are you?”

The apparition sat before him, perched elegantly on the mossy gravestone. “Ah, but that’s for you to find out.”

“Always cryptic, huh?”

Theodore shrugged, crossing one leg over the other. “I see you have not yet gotten over that dreadful jealousy.” 

“Jealousy!”

“Jealousy,” said Theodore. “Mother and Father did not see you as a simple consolation prize, brother. Perhaps an outside view could bring you peace?”

“Then explain to me,” spat Zacharias, fingers trembling against the withered grass. “Explain to me why they always were so disappointed in me. Why they pointed out how I stood up against you. Oh, I know I’m a poor prize, Theo! It only took me ten years too late to find out!”

Zacharias let himself fall back against the earth. Fingers traced the lines spidering out from his eyes and cheeks, betraying his age and guilt to any who dared pass a glance across his face. 

“I’m a poor shade of you,” he whispered aloud.

He sat still for a long while, the cold of the earth dripping into him and infecting his bones until even breaths felt too heavy. 

The stars blinked blearily against the black sky before Zacharias rose once more. Bones creaked like ancient stairs as he staggered to his feet.

A soft spell lit the gravestone for a moment.

Moss fell away, covering the shattered, gleaming bottle.

A soft crack of well-practiced Disapparition signalled his departure, alone, from the gravestone. 

The graveyard was left serene in eternity; its visitor still caught in the whirlpools of life.

Zacharias Apparated home and fell into an old ruby red armchair, so different from the affluence of his youth. One hand reached out for the half-empty glass of bourbon left warm on the side table before stopping, half curled. 

Instead, he brought his hands to his face and leaned forward, fingers pressing like blunt nails into his cheeks and jawline.

_ “I understand.”  _

He uncurled himself from the armchair and knelt, achingly, at the cold grate. With a flourish of flame and a toss of Floo Powder, he called for his godmother. 

“Poppy? I need to talk to you about something…” 

 


	2. The Frankensteins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompts:
> 
> Coast, Thistle, A Walking Song

“Call in Wolf,” the cloaked man muttered, setting down the pipette he held in one hand and switching to his wand. “This is bigger than we thought.” 

“We’re making a bloody Frankenstein’s monster, sir,” the woman near him sniped back, glancing uncomfortably at the body laid out on the carnelian-lined steel table near them. “Of course it’s big.” 

“You signed up for this, kid,” the man snapped back, watching as the smoke from the potion he was working on violently shifted from blue to a deep, ominous red. “Floo Wolf. Now. He’s had enough time languishing on that coast of his.” 

The woman huffed, peeling off her dragonhide gloves, and scurried out of the lab. 

Once she was out of sight, the man sighed, setting his cauldron aside. Almost lazily, he applied a stasis charm before leaning his brow forward into his hands, his glasses pressing uncomfortably against his long nose. 

What they were doing was an abomination. 

What they were doing could save magical Britain. 

Saul Croaker removed his face from his hands as footsteps creaked on the stairs. With smooth, practiced hands, he removed the stasis charm from the potion and added the last thistle, blending it in with the rest until the thing turned a cool, deep violet. 

“Wolf,” he said, glancing up to meet the man’s warm gray eyes. Augustus Rookwood was an affable, even kind, man. He’d been surprised to find he was willing to take on the task that Minister Bagnold had assigned them. 

“Captain Raven,” Rookwood-  _ Wolf-  _ responded in kind. “You called?” 

“Indeed,” Croaker drawled, even as Cat and Crow joined them. “We shall begin the first stages of the creature’s awakening soon.”

“I thought we weren’t due to begin until next week?” Cat asked uncertainly. 

“Bagnold?” Crow droned. 

“The soul is not as stable as we thought,” said Croaker, mind flashing back towards the ominous red of the smoke from before. “The first stages must begin within the next hour or else we lose….”

Their eyes were all drawn to the young teen on the table, his skin flaxen and powdery. 

“There are not many with that particular quirk,” Wolf rumbled, his gray eyes sweeping up the corpse’s frame. “Natural defense against the Killing Curse. Not enough to survive, but enough-” 

“The chances of finding another body with the same defenses and with part of the soul still in the area?” Cat cut him off with a nod. “We can’t risk it.” 

“What’s the worst that can happen?” asked Crow slowly, his voice low and sepulchre in tone. “We create Frankenstein’s monster and reenact the story?”

“That’s my line,” Cat sulked, before her eyes snapped up to Crow’s. “Hey! When did you start reading muggle science fiction? And since when do  _ you  _ make jokes!”

“Back to the experiment,” Croaker said, raising his voice slightly. “We must hurry.”

As they gathered around the body, each member preparing their part of the ritual, Croaker’s hands somehow found the handles of the cauldron, numb as they were. 

_ There is something at work in my soul which I do not understand. _

Croaker blinked as the strange thought left. Frankenstein. How...apt. 

_ Must be Cat and Crow’s talk of it influencing me _ , Croaker thought to himself as he spread the thistle poultice across the body’s joints. 

“Why thistle?” Cat asked, staring at the purple poultice applied carefully to the corpse’s joints and jaw. 

“Pardon?”

“Why thistle?” she said. “I recognize this...but why…?” 

“Part of the ritual,” Croaker croaked. 

Cat blinked at him.

“Thistle poultices are often used to assist rheumatic joints and sore jaws. In this ritual, it helps the magic move more smoothly through long-unused joints.” 

“Oh,” said Cat, scratching behind her ear. “Shall we get going then?”

“Crow, have you prepared-”

“Yes,” Crow said in response to Croaker’s half finished question. “I have chosen Tolkein’s A Walking Song as the medium of my chant.”

“Ah,” said Croaker, eyes flashing with understanding and curiosity as he peered at the bard master. “Upon the hearth the fire is red-”

“Beneath the roof there is a bed,” Crow finished. 

“Chosen to breathe life into the subject,” Croaker added. The sentence hung in the air, awkwardly incomplete. 

Wolf and Cat shuffled as they finished their respective parts, as always keeping a safe distance from their darker, colder teammates. Croaker wiped off his hands as Crow began muttering the lines of the poem.

He reached for his wand.

“Aqua vitae,” he began, voice raspy and worn. “Astra inclinant, sed non obligant-”

“But not yet weary are our feet,” came Crow’s voice, sepulchre and shaded.

“Igne natura renovatur integra,” Croaker added even as the runes Cat had placed began to glow and Wolf’s power surged around them. 

“Still round the corner we may meet-”

“Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo-”

“-and flower and leaf and grass-”

Blue lights flashed like lightning as the runes grew to an almost unbearable brightness. Wolf and Croaker’s chanting swirled around each other, blending together until one word led smoothly into another. Crow’s low, melancholic voice built with it, even and steady. 

“Towards the Moon or to the the Sun-”

“Oderint dum metuant,” Wolf nearly sung. 

“Carpe noctum,” Croaker intoned, watching as the lights suddenly froze and flashed inside the body.

The purple poultice faded into the corpse's skin as a soft blue mist escaped its lips. 

“We succeeded,” Cat whispered, uncertainty and elation playing across her face like a kaleidoscope. “We did it!” 

“Not yet,” Croaker said, glancing at Crow and Wolf. “This only the beginning.”

“What we have is not even an inferi,” Crow pointed out. 

“But it’s a start,” said Cat, eyes glittering like gems. 

None of them said anything, but the soft rise and fall of the once still chest near them answered her. 

“Go home,” Croaker said, suddenly infused with exhaustion. “We have much to do before the next ritual, but I have no doubt you all require some rest.”

“What about you, Captain?” Cat asked. “You need to sleep too…”

“I will be fine, Cat,” said Croaker. “Go home. That’s an order.”

The Runes mistress just sighed and retreated up the stairs with one last backwards glance at the not-quite corpse on the table. 

“Get some rest, sir,” Wolf said, patting Croaker’s shoulder. “Good night.”

“Enjoy the coast,” said Croaker in response. 

The quiet sound of Crow’s wing tipped Oxfords broke the stillness of the room. 

“Fire and lamp, meat and bread,” Crow droned.

“And then to bed,” said Croaker with a ghost of a smile. “Well done, Bode.” 

Crow’s hand squeezed Croaker’s shoulder for a second, his cold eyes flickering with warmth deep inside his mask- a flame reserved only for him. 

Another heartbeat and he was twirling away, his robe disappearing up the steps. 

Nothing but the quiet inhalation and deflation of the corpse’s chest and Croaker’s own silent breaths disturbed the air. His eyes locked onto the shut eyes of the body and for a second, he imagined the eyelids fluttering.

Had they created a monster?

Would they suffer the fate of Frankenstein in their attempt to create a super weapon against Voldemort’s inferi? 

Or would they finally beat this war?

What would happen to the creature when it fulfilled its duty…

And what would happen to him and his team when the story broke?

The questions, so old and familiar to him now that he could map out which breath they’d come with, rattled around in his brain as he slowly began to clean up. 

He would sleep at dawn. 


	3. 2050s

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BEATER 2: Write about a time where wizardkind has gotten so used to Muggle technology that they find themselves using magic lesser and lesser.
> 
> (dialogue) "How many wizards does it take to make an aeroplane fly?"  
> (setting) movie theatre  
> 9\. (object) broken torch  
> 15\. (dialogue) "What do you mean, these pictures don't move?"

“Is that our grandad? What is he  _ wearing _ ?” Sari exclaimed, crawling her way out of the dusty boxes with unsteady, coltish legs. At thirteen, she was in the midst of an impressive growth spurt that left her with long legs she had  _ no idea  _ how to use.

“What? Show me!” her twin snapped, nearly tumbling over an errant box as she skittered to her sister’s side. 

“What, is it dumb 90s clothes?” Leo snorted, picking his way through the dusty attic they were ‘exploring’ (i.e., snooping). “Because Great-Grandma Weasley has  _ tons  _ of pictures of that.”

“No, it’s like…” Sari squinted at it. Her twin, Kiara, made a mental note to tell her parents that Sari needed new glasses...again. “Here, Ki, you look.” 

Kiara took the picture as Leo tried and failed to glance over her shoulder. “Holy shit!”

“No swearing!” Leo chirped in, finally butting his head under her armpit. She promptly slammed her arm down. Leo whined, retreating quickly. 

“It looks like a dress- which I mean, no prob but-” Kiara said slowly.

“It’s ugly,” Sari said with a nod. “Very ugly.”

“Let me see!” Leo said, ripping the photo from her hand. “What on Earth…” He burst into giggles. “Why would great uncle Harry wear those things?” 

Sari proceeded to do what she always did when she ran into a problem she didn’t understand. 

She moved on to the next curiosity. 

“Hey, uh, guys?” she said, staring down at the next picture with furrowed, confused eyebrows. “This picture isn’t moving.”

“What do you mean, these pictures don’t move?” Leo said, shoving the photo in his pocket before practically teleporting to Sari’s side. Kiara picked her way more slowly, wincing at Leo’s rough treatment of the photo. 

“They don’t  _ move _ ,” said Sari. “Which doesn’t make sense. Even before mundies started using mo-gifs exclusively, weren’t photos….I don’t know... _ spelled _ to move?”

“Nah, remember? Most mundies didn’t know about wizards,” said Kiara. “Mo-gifs weren’t a thing until like...2026 or something. I don’t remember exactly. I think we were like...babies or something.”

“Weird,” said Sari, setting the photo back down. Leo’s hand quickly scooped it up again, making Kiara deadpan. 

“Are you going to pocket everything of interest, Leo?” she snapped. 

Leo awkwardly shrugged. “‘S not like it was being used or anything. We’re in the attic of our bloody uncle’s movie theater. These old things haven’t seen the light of day in years.” He paused, pocketing an old watch. “Decades, actually.” 

At this point, even Sari had paused from where she was crouched before a closet, clearing away the boxes so she could open in. 

“Really?” the twins asked together. 

Leo just shrugged, next snatching up an old Gryffindor necktie. 

The three went back to exploring. 

Barely five minutes had passed before Sari shrieked, emerging from the closet with wild eyes.

“Huh-?” said Kiara.

“Stupid torch stopped working!” Sari hissed, glaring at the dark closet. “I  _ hate  _ the dark!” 

“Well, hey, it’s light now,” said Kiara with a shrug. “Besides...isn’t there some kind of...I don’t know, light spell? I remember like people lighting up the tips of their wands during class or something…”

“Lumos?” said Sari after a long pause, her wand drifting through the half-forgotten movements. “I think it was Lumos.”

“Thank you, resident Charms genius,” Leo said with a bright grin. “What would we ever 

do without you?”

Sari smiled a bit.

“Well…” said Leo with a slight drawl. He emerged from a box with a model airplane. “I gotta joke to make you feel better?”

The twins made the same swirling hand motion, gesturing for him to continue. 

“How many wizards does it take to make an aeroplane fly?” asked Leo, flying the plane through the air.

“How many?” Sari groaned. 

“Depends. Are they trying to use magic or do they have a pilot's license?” 

Sari began a slow clap, each one cascading with sarcasm. 

“Well done, Leo,” said Kiara, jumping on the ‘tease-Leo’ train. “An absolute masterpiece of a joke. I had no idea you were truly a boosh underneath that gross strawberry blond head of yours.” 

“Are you calling me a bold, confident woman?” Leo asked, placing his hands on his hips. “Thank you!” 

“You’re welcome,” Kiara said, now laughing a bit. “Okay dorks. Let’s go sneak back into the movie before Dad finds us.” 

“Good ol’ Uncle Scorp,” said Leo, taking the girls’ lead. “Do you think if we were caught Aunt Lily would ream his ass again?”

“If we were caught, we’d be left with only our wands for a month,” said Kiara, shuddering. “Can you imagine?” 

“The only class you could do anything in would be magic,” Leo snorted. “The horror.”

“Hey!” said Sari, butting in. “It’s not like magic is used for anything nowadays. The mundies outpaced wizards for the most part years ago. At least, that’s what Mum says.” 

“‘It was only a matter of time before the muggles outpaced us,’” Leo quoted. “‘After all, the wizarding world remained stagnant despite my parents generation's best efforts while the muggles kept bounding forward’. Yeah. I know.” 

“Okay, movie time,” said Sari. “No more lectures. I get enough of that with my brother.” 

“Whatever,” said Leo with a shrug. As Kiara and Sari walked normally down the steps, Leo rode the rail down, running one hand against the polished wood. “Hey, do you guys wanna see a picture I found of my grandpa? You know, no one ever told me his first name was  _ Dudley _ . How weird of a name is that?” 

“Leo Arthur Dursley, how many pictures did you steal?!” 


	4. Blue-eyed Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optional prompt picks:   
> 10.(emotion) disappointment  
> 11.(word) grass-stain  
> 12.(dialogue) "If I was a foot taller, would it have made a difference?”  
> Beater's Bat: Write about a bully.

“But it was Dudley!” Harry protested, all knobbly knees and fiery determination. He leaned forward across the desk, grass stained and bloody cheeked. His chin was mottled with quickly forming purples and deep, angry reds. 

“Mr. Potter, it is always ‘Dudley’,” said the professor, giving him a baleful eye. “Yet, we’ve never found a time where it wasn’t the both of you fighting. This has gone on long enough.”

“But sir!” Harry said, eyes flashing.

“Perhaps you should think about not picking fights with your cousin,” he said, evaluating Harry’s skinny, scrawny frame. “Well, detention this time. Keep your nose clean.” 

He handed Harry a piece of paper, noting the detention was with Harry’s teacher the next day. “Off you trot.” 

As Harry walked out of the office, the secretary leaned over. “Off the book, Harry,” she said softly, beckoning him closer. “There is an after school self defense club. I’d recommend joining it.” 

“I can’t,” Harry said, relaxing slightly in her presence. “I’m busy after school.”

It was a half lie. Harry knew the Dursleys would never let him join a club. Besides, he was busy after school with his never-ending list of chores. His knees already ached at the thought of the garden waiting for him to weed and the floors waiting to be swept, scrubbed, mopped, scrubbed, and swept again. 

She seemed to understand, weaving her fingers together. “Remember Harry, if you ever feel you are in danger, the counseling office—”

Harry’s back stiffened. “I’m okay,” he said roughly, hitching his ratty backpack further up his narrow shoulders. “Thank you, Miss Peterson. I’ll see you later.”

“Harry—”

He was already out the door. 

Harry stomped down the hallway, jaw set. He knew better. Nothing would come of it, because it wasn’t like it was all that bad. Sure, he lived in a cupboard and didn’t get fed enough, but there were poor kids at his school who were worse off. And yeah, sometimes Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would hit him and stuff but it wasn’t like he was being beaten by them. Dudley had that covered. 

Disappointment crawled over his shoulders like a thick tar and sat there. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Teachers never believed him. No one liked the scrawny brat in room 320. 

He kicked a stray water battle down the hallway as he made his way towards the doors. He’d have to hurry home to avoid Dudley’s gang or his aunt’s displeasure.   
The sun stroked his sore jawline as a cool autumnal breeze ruffled his wild hair. He stood still for less than a second before striking forward at a half jog. 

It didn’t take long for him to reach the playground a few blocks from his house. 

“Potter!” 

Harry flinched, immediately taking off in a run.

“Nice try!” a boy sneered, grabbing Harry’s arm and yanking him around. Harry snarled and bit at his arm, but another boy- Piers- held back his other arm while a third boy circled him.

“Wittle baby Potter,” Dudley said, swaggering up to them. “What are you doing skulking around here?”

“Avoiding your face,” Harry sneered. “Wouldn’t want to lose even more of my vision.”

Dudley blinked at the insult, not quite getting the mythology reference before reddening in confused anger. He swore at Harry, lobbing a punch at him.

Harry let out a low groan as a meaty fist collided with his cheek. “Picking up swears from dear old Da, huh Dudley?” he said. “What would Mummy say?”

“At least  _ my _ mum and dad aren’t dead,” Dudley snapped. “What have Mum and Dad said….oh yeah! They were drunks who got themselves killed so they wouldn’t have to be around you!”

Harry saw red and suddenly he was on Dudley, fist hitting the bigger boy’s chest. 

“Get off, freak!” Dudley shouted, throwing Harry off. Harry choked as he landed, all the air pushed from his lungs. 

“What a freak,” Piers sneered, the other boys nodding. 

“I’m telling Mum,” Dudley said nastily. “You’ll see.” He turned to his gang. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

The gang lumbered off, though not without a couple kicks at Harry. For a moment he remained sprawled against the sidewalk before slowly pulling himself into a sitting position. 

“Need a hand?” a high voice asked. Harry glanced up to see a girl with unusually bright blue eyes. Her hand was outstretched.

“Thanks,” Harry muttered, taking her hand and letting her pull him to his feet.

“You need to stand up for yourself,” the girl chided, her yellow-blonde hair whipping around in the chilly fall wind. 

“If I was a foot taller, would it have made a difference?” Harry asked tiredly. “It doesn’t matter if I stand up for myself or not. When I can’t outrun him, I don’t have a chance.” 

She gave him a disappointed frown. 

Harry frowned back at her.

She giggled, pointing at his now-startled face. “You look so silly with that scary look on your face,” she said, mirth in her voice. It sounded like bells. “Like an angry kitten!” 

Harry frowned deeper.

“Lily!” a man called. The girl turned, glancing back at him.

“Coming!” she called back. “It was nice to meet you-?”

“Harry,” he said, holding out his hand. “Harry Potter.”

“Nice to meet you Harry!” she repeated, shaking his hand.

“Nice to meet you Lily,” Harry responded with a small smile.

She grinned, letting her hand fall to her side. “See, a smile looks much better on you.”

“Lily!” 

Laughing, she twirled away. “Bye Harry! Don’t let the bullies get you down!” 

Harry smiled softly. “I won’t.” 

She flashed him one last smile before disappearing into her father’s SUV.

Harry never saw her again, but her words stayed with him as he faced down Draco Malfoy. 

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” Harry said, the memory of the blue-eyed girl’s words and bright smile straightening his spine.


End file.
